


Fantasy

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Kinky Martin, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Martin has a fantasy.Martin has a lot of fantasies, actually, because he’s got an overactive imagination and he’s incredibly gay. And, well, having Jonathan Sims as his boss now really, really doesn’t help with that. It almost feels a bit like going through puberty again, the way his thoughts always default to sex sex sex whenever he doesn’t have something else to think about. Except this time, he’s got some experience to back those fantasies up. He knows more. The fantasies aren’t all vague flashes of skin and heat, fractured moments of a process he isn’t entirely certain of. They’re intricate, elaborate things that he puts entirely too much thought and detail into.He has a lot of fantasies. But recently, one of them has become the fantasy. The new favorite, the one he keeps coming back to over and over again. The finer details vary sometimes, but the broad strokes remain the same. It’s like this:“Martin,” Jon says shortly one day, opening the door to his office to glare out at the little Archival Assistants bullpen.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 73
Kudos: 577





	Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_taller_tale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/gifts).



Jon Knows things now. Randomly, compulsively. He doesn’t seem to have much of any control over it. Or he does, but only to a certain degree. He can sometimes deliberately Know something, but there’s even odds that it’s going to lay him flat out and unconscious on his office floor as much as it’s going to actually give him a clear cut Answer.  _ Not _ Knowing something, though? Impossible. He’s tried. He knows that Basira and Melanie hate it when he does it, and he rather wishes he could _ stop  _ Knowing things about Daisy, since most of the things the Eye seems to be interested in telling him about her are related to her activities as a Hunter. 

Deliberately denying information, knowledge-- it’s never really felt right to him, even with his whole desperate sceptic act when he first became the Archivist. But lately, it doesn’t only feel ‘not right’, but unnatural.  _ Bad.  _

His Assistants won’t take that as an excuse, however, which he understands. He keeps trying. 

He does a very bad job. It just-- he can’t control his own  _ thoughts, _ and it happens as easily as thinking. All he has to do is idly think  _ I wonder what Melanie looked like before she got that haircut, _ and he Knows, in an utterly casual sort of way, as if the information had always been there in his head for him to stumble across. He often doesn’t even notice that he’s done it at all, for minutes or  _ hours.  _ As soon as any topic at all becomes relevant inside of his head (besides all of the  _ actually important ones,  _ naturally) the Eye promptly supplies him with the Answer. Curiosity instantly sated. 

The worst ones, though, are the ones that set off a  _ wildfire _ of curiosity, instead of immediately pacifying it. When one Answer immediately leads to another Question, which must be Answered in turn, and on and on it goes for an entire afternoon, until something or someone finally, mercifully happens to knock him off the train of thought. He can’t help it. He knows it’s wrong. He  _ can’t stop it. _ He can’t just--  _ turn off  _ wanting to know things! 

He tries to avoid getting into those sorts of spirals--but again, can’t control his own thoughts-- and he’s found that one of the things that work best is to keep his mind firmly turned away from his coworkers. This can be done via reading something particularly consuming. He has enough conflict in his life that additional fictional troubles don't appeal to him, but the Archives are full of Statements. Unsatisfying, dry, lifeless things of paper, certainly, but they’re better than nothing. If he just reads enough of them then it almost feels like a meal. 

And, as is the goal, he can’t think of anything _but_ a Statement while he’s reading one. 

He can’t be reading Statements twenty four seven, however. He has to occasionally rest his eyes, and there are… slip ups. 

Most of them relate to Martin. It’s just… the Eye only Answers the Questions that occur to Jon, and his thoughts so often wander to Martin, these days. He knows it’s invasive. He’s trying to stop. Martin had told him to stop finding him, and Jon’s trying to respect that, he is. That doesn’t stop the fact that if Martin Blackwood’s existence (and his aching absence) so much as even occurs to him for a single moment, the Eye instantly supplies him with his exact current location, because that’s what he desperately wants to know. His presence, so close and yet so far, is near constantly a burning point in his mental map of the Institute. He could find him with his eyes closed, if he wanted to. 

Not walking up to Martin somehow feels even more grueling, with that constant helpful little stream of knowledge that would make it so _ easy _ for him. At least he hasn’t accidentally Known what is actually going through Martin’s head, why he’s  _ doing _ this. 

Well. He  _ had _ tried to Know, hadn’t he. A moment of weakness. It had turned out to be one of those Questions that just made him crumple to the floor and nurse a migraine for the rest of the day, however, so. No harm done. 

He’s thinking about Martin again. Brooding about Martin again. Sighing at himself, melancholic and exasperated at his own pining melancholy, he neatly sets away the newest Statement that he’s consumed, mentally marking it as ‘spent.’ Reading it again will bring him no satisfaction or relief. 

He should go and find another one. Help keep his mind on a track that won’t bother anyone else, a little bit more fuel for the tank so that his skin won’t be crawling quite so awfully with hunger. 

He has done nothing but read Statements all day. He’s sick of it, nauseous of second hand horror and yet also disappointed by the staleness of it at the same time. He wants to do something else. There is nothing else to do. All of his Assistants have left for the day, as they all still have a flat. He has the cot. He wants to go to sleep as little as he wants to go and find another Statement. Meaning, he’s simultaneously disgusted and tempted by the concept. He’s more sick of that specific conflicted feeling than anything else, actually, he thinks. 

Martin hasn’t gone home yet, he Knows. Sleep holds no particular appeal for him either. Not that anything does, these days. Might as well stay late at the office and get some work done. Be productive. He’s in his office. Peter’s office. Elias’ office. 

He presses his knuckles down on his eyelids. 

“Stop it,” he tells himself, shooting for stern and landing on tired. He’d used to be so good at that. His impression of his battle axe of a grandmother had been flawless, an excellent shield of professionalism and distance. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost that. Probably around the time that it really started to sink in that he honestly doesn’t have the right to tell people what to do. As if he knows better than anyone at all. What a joke. 

He’d known that he didn’t have the right all the way back before everything went wrong, really. Deep down. That was why he tried so hard to make up for it. Overcompensating. Obsessing over which sweater vest and tie combo to wear to work, as if it mattered. Defensively snapping at everyone around him before they could think to make any comments or accusations that he didn’t deserve this promotion, that Elias had made a mistake in choosing him, as if anyone was actually going to do that. Sitting neat and scowling in the foreboding, leather office chair he’d inherited from his predecessor, a stress migraine pounding quietly inside of his skull. 

It was, at least, a comfortable chair. High quality. 

Martin had liked it as well, Jon Knows. 

He stops. Takes his hands away from his eyes. Blinks, baffled and caught off guard. 

Martin’s sat in his chair before? 

Yes. 

When? 

During the first time he was living here, hiding away from Prentiss. 

Jon cannot remember ever walking into his office to see Martin sitting in his chair. He feels like that’d be the sort of thing he’d make too big of a deal about, back then. There’s an extra chair currently pushed up against the wall and out of the way, for the rare visitor who intended to stay for longer than five minutes to sit in. Martin just sat there, whenever he did visit Jon in his office for more than a drop off of tea or a report. Meaning it must’ve happened while he wasn’t in his office, and if he weren’t here, then what reason would Martin have to even be here? 

Why would Martin sit in his chair? 

And all at once, Jon Knows. He Knows that

Martin’s breath hitches. He can’t stop thinking about what might happen if Jon walks through that door, what if he  _ sees.  _

He won’t. Jon may work late sometimes, so late that he has to stay over for the night, even, but Martin had made  _ sure _ that he was gone before he did this. He’s not a complete idiot. One of the benefits of living in the Institute full time, these days, is that he can remind Jon to wrap things up and leave before he’ll be too late to miss the last ride home. Taking care of him a bit, in exchange for him helping him find a place to stay that isn’t his awful flat. 

There’s no one in the Institute at all, besides Martin and his carefully calculated terrible decisions. This is wrong. This is  _ depraved.  _

He bites back a moan at that, his head tipping back against Jon’s chair, Jon’s lovely, high back leather chair that makes him look intimidating even while sitting down, with that frown firmly fixed in place. His hand tightens around his prick, leaking at the head with eager precum. He’s  _ jerking off _ in his  _ boss’ chair.  _

“Fuck,” he breathes to himself shakily. He could theoretically shout it out as loud as he wants, but the very idea of it makes his throat close up protectively. He thrusts desperately up into his own tight fist, and pants as he looks down at it. His trousers unbuttoned and shoved messily down his thighs. God, Jon would be  _ so mad _ if he knew. Absolutely furious. 

A groan tears out of him. Yeah, Jon would be angry. So angry that he’d fire him… unless. Unless, he just walked up to Martin and-- and took what he wanted, harsh and rough and selfish, if Martin was going to be so filthy and showing himself off in  _ Jon’s own office. _ Of course he should get to take what he wants then. Martin’s mouth, his arse, his cock… whatever he wanted. He’d be fully within his rights. Martin would deserve it, for being so-- so unrestrained, so vulgar. Vulgar. He can hear that in Jon’s voice perfectly.  _ Vulgar.  _

He imagines it. Jon glaring down at him, shoving him out of his chair and onto the floor, or bending him over his desk, into his proper place, and just-- just-- 

With a loud, jagged cry, he comes. 

After a long, drifting moment, he gathers himself up and proceeds to  _ very thoroughly _ clean Jon’s chair. He can’t quite bring himself to meet his eyes the next day. 

Jon comes back to himself. He gasps in a breath, and reaches out to steady himself on his desk before he falls out of his own damned chair. For a long moment, he just reels at that. At how immersive, how  _ vivid _ that Knowing had been. 

Then, the awareness that he’s sitting in a chair that  _ Martin-- _ that Martin--  _ in this chair--  _

He stands up so quickly it almost falls over. He sucks in another deep breath, and his face is  _ hot.  _

“Oh lord,” he says faintly to himself. 

Things get… challenging, after that. He knows, lowercase K, above all else, that what he’s done is wrong. That that is definitely the sort of thing that people don’t want him Knowing about them. And yet, now he does. He Knows that about  _ Martin, _ of all people. He now knows what his prick looks like, hard and leaking and held tightly within his own fist. His pale, bare thighs. He knows what it sounds like when Martin makes-- noises. 

Jon doesn’t really  _ do that,  _ but all of that knowledge makes him burn. It’s  _ intimate. _ The sort of thing only a partner would ever get to see. 

The sort of thing Martin wouldn’t want for Jon to see. That inserts a cold shard of ice into the fire simmering beneath his skin whenever he lets his thoughts stray for too long in the direction of Martin muttering swears to himself as his hips snap up into his own hand. Martin may have had-- feelings for him, once. Whatever they were. But now he doesn’t even want to  _ talk _ to Jon. He… most likely doesn’t want this either. 

It wasn’t on purpose. It hadn’t been. How was he to know that Martin had done-- that? In the  _ office? _ The absolute  _ madman. _ Jon doesn’t-- he doesn’t  _ understand _ people like that, sometimes. The ones that want sex outside of a very narrow set of circumstances and individuals and times and boundaries. 

Well. His Knowing-- it had supplied him with a bit of an Answer, even if it still doesn’t quite make sense to him. Martin had done that  _ because _ it was mad. Taboo. It had… excited him. Felt thrilling. 

He had thought of Jon as well. Jon as he’d been back then, the Jon that he’s so ashamed of now. The fact that Martin had feelings for him back then  _ (such loyalty to someone who really treats you very badly) _ is still baffling to him. He had thought maybe-- maybe Martin saw the best in him? That he smoothed over the bad parts, and came up with excuses for him. Saw him in the best, most unfairly flattering light possible. Rose colored lenses. 

But he hadn’t. The Jon in Martin’s mind had been harsh and snappish and-- it had made him  _ squirm  _ anyways. It had been  _ appealing, _ even, in an odd sort of way. Although he’s not entirely sure of that because it doesn’t make any damned sense. 

Regardless of how confusing (and entrancing) that whole-- vision, really-- was, it was also wrong. Martin wouldn’t want for Jon to see that. It was an accident, it’s already happened, he can’t Unknow it now-- but he can try his best to not dwell on it more than he already has. From letting it happen again. 

Easier said than done. 

Every single time he sits in that damned chair, he thinks about it. He can’t  _ help _ it. The way the armrests had pressed up against Martin’s hips, broader than Jon’s. The way the chair sticked to his bare thighs and arse, leather against sweaty skin. The way his breathing hitched and went thin and unsteady as he thought about Jon entering the office and seeing him like that, _ squeezing _ down on his prick-- 

Jon tries out sitting in the more general area, instead of holing up in his library like a fortress, as is his habit. Thinking of his office as a safe space is ridiculous, considering how many times he’s been physically attacked in there, and the fact that Elias has produced at least two corpses in that very room, one of which Jon got to see for himself in horribly vivid detail that is still perfectly etched onto his mind to this day, and likely forever will remain so. But. It does feel a little bit less  _ open _ in there. Like a rabbit sitting in a flat field, plain to see and just waiting to be snatched up by a passing hawk. 

He tries out sitting in the general area anyways. 

“I was starting to think that someone had murdered you while I had my back turned,” Daisy says one day, leaning her hip against the desk he’s commandeered for his own use. It’s not as if Melanie’s using it to do any work anyways. He thinks she may be currently loitering in the smoking area. “And you were trapped haunting your office, and you just hadn’t noticed it yet.” 

“You know, I suspected almost the exact same thing of Martin once,” he says. And then he’s thinking about Martin again-- Martin, biting down on his lower lip to try and remain quiet, the only sound in the office his bitten off noises and the slick sound of-- 

“Why am I not surprised. I bet you suspected it  _ seriously, _ too.” 

“Well,” he stammers, trying very hard to swerve his train of thought away from that whole minefield. Focus on the conversation. 

“Knew it. How far did it go? Did you point some infrared cameras at him, try and prove your theory?” 

“I-- it was only for a  _ moment. _ I asked him right away!” 

“You  _ asked  _ him if he was a ghost.” 

“And he said  _ no.”  _

“Shocker.” 

“Hey, Daisy--” Basira says, letting the door shut behind her as she enters the Archives. She comes to a stop as soon as she sees Jon. He goes stiff and uncomfortable where he sits, resisting the urge to duck his head and hurry back into his office, mumbling apologies along the way. He feels oddly like he’s snuck his way into somewhere he isn’t supposed to be, and now he’s been caught. “Woah,” she eventually says. “So you’re not haunting your office after all.” 

He splutters. 

“I told her about my theory,” Daisy says. He tosses her an embarrassed glare, but feels his shoulders untensing anyways. He’s feeling a little bit less like a trespasser for every moment they aren’t demanding to know why he’s out here, and not in there, alone. Where he’s supposed to be. 

“Evidently” he says, laying on a thick layer of theatrical annoyance to the word. 

And from there, things go rather pleasantly amiably. Daisy and Basira pointedly don’t talk about Basira’s week-long absence, but Basira doesn’t sharply ask him if he’s been keeping up his ‘diet’, and some takeout is ordered. It tastes… not like food, to be honest, but he gamely eats two spring rolls and some rice anyways and doesn’t say anything about it. He’d rather not ruin the fragile peaceful mood by reminding everyone of how inhuman he is. Daisy sits on the floor as she eats, her back to him, her head resting against his thigh where he sits in Melanie’s chair. Basira goes on about some book she’s read as she eats noodles, sitting on the desk besides the one Jon is sitting at. 

It’s… lovely, really. The sort of moment he’d take for granted before, or even be annoyed by, precious productive work time snatched away from him by his assistants insistence on chatty, friendly little lunch breaks that stretched on for too long. Until he’d eventually break it up with a glare and a pointed comment. 

This time, he keeps his mouth shut and nods in all of the right places as Basira talks and Daisy occasionally interjects, loath to say anything that might accidentally bring the whole thing to an early end. 

Melanie comes back from her ‘smoke break’ eventually, though, and he’s reminded why he usually lurks inside of his office. She doesn’t-- she doesn’t  _ do _ anything, not since he cut out the bullet. It’s more the look on her face, really. Like she’s been confronted by something that she hadn’t been braced for. Had a knife pulled on her in a place she’d thought was safe. 

Jon mumbles some excuses and retreats back to his office. 

Bad idea. It had been a bad idea. 

Avoiding his office for the rest of time isn’t a sustainable plan, anyways. He just has to-- get used to it. He’d learned to stop seeing Leitner’s corpse on the floor of his office every time he looked at it, eventually. He can learn how to stop thinking about Martin  _ wanting _ him every time he sits in his chair. 

He had been wanted. Wanted with a desperate, urgent heat that made it feel more like a  _ need. _ How had that happened? How had Martin looked at Jonathan Sims, in all his scowling, prickly, judgemental glory, and decided that  _ that _ was what he liked? Enough so to desire him stupidly, recklessly, to the point of  _ having a wank in his chair _ when he got the opportunity. 

Before he can stop himself, because Jon can’t control his own thoughts, he wonders if Martin’s done anything else like that at work. He Knows

“Sorry!” Martin squeaks. “Sorry, sorry.” 

“For heaven’s sake, Martin,” Jon bites out, defensively pulling his files and papers away from the spot on his desk where Martin’s rather clumsily set down a cup of tea. A bit of it slopped out over the rim, but thank god, it seems that it’s just pooling in the saucer underneath. 

That doesn’t seem to placate Jon all that much, though. 

“You’ve been useless all day,” he says, and he’s not even wrong. 

Before this, Martin’s dropped and broken one mug (he apologized profusely, swore to a buy a new one, and cleaned it up, his face red and burning the whole way through), dropped and had to reorder three different files, accidentally bumped into Jon twice, and he’s had to ask for something to be repeated to him almost every time someone said something to him. 

“Just feeling a bit under the weather,” he lies. 

“If you’re not going to be contributing anything, you might as well stay home,” he says, and he almost sounds concerned, except Martin knows better. He bites his tongue on a reply that  _ Jon  _ comes into work when he’s sick, because that’d be opening himself up to the fact that the few times Jon  _ has _ come into work sick, Martin had quickly bullied him back out. Having taken care of an extraordinarily stubborn sick woman for most of his life, he knows how to stand his ground when someone really shouldn’t be out of bed that day but is refusing to acknowledge it. 

“Sorry,” he says again. “I’m really not that bad though. I’m just having a hard time… focusing.” 

He puts his hands behind his back, hand gripping wrist, so that he won’t wring them in front of Jon. As he does so, the elaborately tied rope underneath his bulkiest jumper  _ shifts, _ like it had when he’d bent down to set down Jon’s cup of tea and he'd almost bitten his tongue. 

“Martin?” Jon says, in a way that makes Martin think that that wasn’t the first time he’d said it. 

“Hmm?” he hums, afraid that if he tries any actual words that they’ll just crack like the dropped mug. 

This is  _ ridiculous.  _ He does stuff like this at home all of the time and it’s _ fine.  _ Sure, it’s good, he likes it, but he can at least _ think.  _ It’s not like this. He thought it’d be okay to go with ropework underneath his clothes to work, just something nice to make the day a little bit brighter, but-- rope. He’s wearing rope, at  _ work, _ where he could get  _ caught.  _

He’s wearing rope in front of  _ Jon, _ who is looking at him. Paying attention. 

He always pays attention to Martin, even if he never seems particularly happy about it. His eyes leaving a prickling trail across his skin as he blatantly searches it for answers. 

He swallows thickly. Yeah, he really hadn’t anticipated how… worked up this would make him feel. He resists the urge to stretch just a bit, just to feel the drag of the rope against his shoulders, his back, his collarbone, his chest. Not in front of Jon. 

But god, he wants to do that in front of Jon so much. Because what if Jon  _ notices-- _

“Just… keep an eye on yourself,” Jon says. “If it gets any worse, just leave. You aren’t that needed.” 

“Yes, Jon,” he says, and the feel of the rope pressing snug against his body makes the little jab stir a flare of heat in the pit of his belly, instead of just a little spike of humiliation. It… mixes, instead, in a way that feels really,  _ really _ good. 

Jon looks at him for another long, agonizing moment in which Martin’s sure that he’s going to be discovered, he’s going to notice the outline of ropes that he’d thought he’d covered up with the thick jumper. But instead, he waves one dismissive hand, and then turns back to his work with only one last suspicious look at him. Martin leaves, coasting on a wave of buzzing relief, and a swell of disappointment. 

Honestly, what’s wrong with him? Being caught would be  _ bad. _ There’s no way that that ends well for him. What does he think he’s doing, bringing his-- his  _ gross obsessions _ to work? People get fired for that, and for good reason. 

He keeps hoping to be caught anyways. Keeps pushing things, finding small ways to risk things here at work, where being discovered would be disastrous. 

Keeps hoping that  _ Jon  _ catches him. The absolute worst person to catch him at all. Sasha would have mercy, and Tim would just be amused and tease him until the end of time. But Jon. Jon, who is always so brutally honest, with no apparent care for tact. Jon, who makes no secret of the fact that he doesn’t like Martin, not even a little bit. Jon, who is his boss now. Jon, who’s so neat and proper. 

That would not end with Jon deciding that he likes Martin in rope, actually, and he shouldn’t be wearing anything  _ but _ rope. That’s just-- an idiotic porn fantasy, stupid and unrealistic. So he really shouldn’t tempt fate, as if he’s hoping for it, hoping for Jon hauling him around as he likes by curling his fingers around the snug rope-- 

Martin knocks over a fiddly desk toy from his desk. Sasha shoots him a concerned look, but turns back to her work. He flushes again, hot and mortified in a way that feels unfortunately delicious. He wriggles a little in his seat without thinking about it, and feels the rope rub against his skin. 

God, he’s been distracted and useless and half hard  _ all day. _ He can’t take it any longer. Feeling teased into a reckless madness, he stands abruptly up, and walks out of the room before he can think better of things and talk himself out of it again. He’s been squirming in his seat for hours now, feeling the ropes tied around him like a silent, hidden, incriminating brand that someone is going to spot  _ any moment now.  _

He’s so fucking ready. He’d thought he could get through the whole work day, the whole commute home, because he’d made a promise to himself, hadn’t he,  _ don’t take your dick out at work, that’s taking it too far-- _

But he’s too overheated for that now, every single coherent thought in his head scorching up underneath the stoked up heat roiling inside of himself, built up over hours and hours. 

Martin goes into the small Archives restroom, a bit removed from everything, but at least in the basement so that they don’t need to go up a couple of flights of stairs every time any of them need to take a leak. It’s good, that it’s far enough away. No one’s  _ probably _ going to hear any slick, desperate noises. 

_ But what if someone does, _ his brain helpfully supplies.  _ What if  _ Jon  _ comes and hears?  _

He hurriedly twists the lock shut, and then leans his back up against the door. He can’t wait  _ another moment. _ He fumbles with his belt, shoves trousers and pants all down to his knees, and  _ moans _ as he gets his hand around himself, hot and throbbing. His knees almost give out as he  _ finally  _ touches himself after working himself up for so long. He bites his lip almost painfully to stop himself from being so damned noisy. Fuck, he’s such a loud, useless idiot. 

If only someone could come along and fill his mouth up. Help him shut up. 

Like Jon. Jon likes it when he’s shut up. He lets himself lean into the thought for the first time all day, with the locked door behind him and his dick in his hand. He strokes himself, a long, hard, slow drag of his palm and he hisses and swears, his hips bucking up into it. After a moment, he takes his hand away, but only long enough to lick it once, saliva on his palm, and then he takes a hold of himself again, warm and tight. 

He thinks about it. Thinks, oh, what if the door isn’t really locked, what if he just thinks it is. What if Jon comes inside and sees him like this, a disheveled disgrace, jerking himself off at work like some kind of desperate slut, a shameless pervert. His breath shudders out of him, and he strokes himself faster, harder. What if, what if, what if. 

So many of his fantasies start like that, nowadays. What if Jon catches him doing something really wrong? What if he takes advantage? So mean, so disdainful, so  _ handsome. _ Please? Please, can he catch Martin and take advantage? He thinks he’d  _ die _ of happiness if he ever did. 

“Jon,” he groans, and squeezes his dick just on the edge of too hard in self punishment, bites down on his lip hard enough just shy of turning it bloody. He grabs his jumper, pulls it up until he can bite down on a wad of fabric. There. Shut up, Martin. Stop moaning like a  _ whore.  _

He moans again, muffled this time. He runs his free hand down his now bared chest, feeling the rope criss crossing across his torso. He arches his back against the door, feels the ropework move against him. He jerks himself off, rough and sloppy and desperate. He bites down on his jumper, hard, eyes squeezed shut. 

Imagine Jon seeing him like this. _ Imagine it.  _

He does. He imagines it so well that he comes in record time, coming in messy spurts over his fist and splattering onto his bare thighs, just barely missing the floor or his clothes. He feels like he falls apart, and the rope is the only thing keeping him together. He cries out into his jumper, and then after a long moment, he relaxes his jaw, lets it fall out of his mouth, cover the rope back up again. There’s a wet spot where it’s been in his mouth, now. His jaw is sore from how hard he was biting down. He feels dizzy and light. 

On autopilot, Martin cleans up. 

Stupid, he thinks. He feels  _ good _ right now, right after an orgasm, and normally he’d try and linger in that feeling, try and stretch out the rare moment where he’s too satisfied to mentally chastise himself or dwell on bad things. But he needs to. He needs to remind himself that this is  _ stupid.  _

He can’t keep pushing things at work just because-- because of something as idiotic as the fact that most of his fantasies start like that. Going to work with rope underneath his clothes or a toy shoved inside of him, having a wank in the restroom or the stairway or whatever, relying on blind, dumb luck that no one’s going to interrupt him and see. Being seen by Jon. Being touched by Jon, grabbed and pulled, like he’s something that Jon would want to touch, given the opportunity, given the right leverage. 

He knows it’s silly. Jon would never do that. Not just because he doesn’t even like Martin, not because he’s a professional. Because he’s not a monster. He may be a bit of a bastard, but Martin knows that he’s not… actively malicious, or anything. He just doesn’t like Martin in particular, no matter how hard he tries to change his mind. 

The idea of Jon pulling at his hair and brusquely taking what he wants from him is more believable than him smiling at him and touching him softly, though. And he  _ likes _ fantasizing about Jon touching him. He does it far, far too much. 

He takes a deep breath, and looks his reflection in the eye. His cheeks are a bit red, from the recent exertion. 

“Get it together,” he tells himself as firmly as he can. “This isn’t-- it’s not okay. It’s a bad habit, Martin K Blackwood, and you will stop indulging in it right now. You’ve already gone too far.” 

The thought that this sink is the perfect height for someone (Jon) to bend him over occurs to him, and he gives an anguished groan, before he splashes his face with cold water from the tap. 

Get it together. It’s never going to happen. Tempting fate can only end badly. 

… If Jon ever  _ wanted _ to be mean to Martin in that particular way, though-- 

“Nope,” he says to himself, and leaves to go and try to focus on work, even with the utterly distracting pressure of rope underneath his clothes slowly driving him out of his mind with restless want for the rest of the day. 

Jon chokes. 

He needs a  _ long  _ time to recover from that one. 

Martin had been wearing rope in front of him, distracted and clumsy with arousal _ right in front of him-- _

At any point in the past, if Jon had just-- just reached out and grabbed him or-- or told him to do something, he would have, he’d have gone along with it, happily let it happen. Jon doesn’t even particularly want to, or at least not in the way Martin was fantasizing about, but the fact that Martin wanted for him to do it, would have  _ let  _ him--

He buries his face in his hands and makes some deeply agonized muffled noises, his elbows on his desk, his back hunched over. He spares a long moment to yet again dwell on the fact that he is the largest idiot in London, and quite possibly the whole world. All that time, right underneath his nose-- how had he missed it? Martin, with rope underneath his clothes, having a wank in his chair, speaking to him so kindly even when he was being cranky and ridiculously paranoid or deeply unfair. 

How could he have let that chance go? 

He tries to swallow the rising melancholy down. He’s gone over that particular train of thought before. Too many times. Realizing the true depth of his feelings for Martin, just too late for it to do any good, has been only one of the many things that have haunted him since he’s woken up, but far from the smallest. But this, this Knowing, it’s grinding salt into that particular wound, making it a fresh, sharp pain, where before it had been starting to form into just yet another ache to add to the list. 

He had known that Martin had feelings for him. Now he knows how much. How early. In what particular way. It’s all too much. Too… intense. More than he deserves. Especially more than he deserved back then. But Martin had liked him even then. In a way that made him a bit exasperated and cross with himself, for falling for such a tosser, but he had still been undeniably silly for him. 

He takes some deep breaths. Tries to focus on something that isn’t the wistful, longing ache in his chest. He’s never wanted something so much that it _ hurt _ before. He doesn’t know what to do with the sensation. Had Martin ever felt like this, for him? 

He only has a brief moment to feel alarmed at where his mind has wandered before he Knows

Martin has a fantasy. 

Martin has a lot of fantasies, actually, because he’s got an overactive imagination and he’s  _ incredibly _ gay. And, well, having Jonathan Sims as his boss now really, really doesn’t help with that. It almost feels a bit like going through puberty again, the way his thoughts always default to  _ sex sex sex  _ whenever he doesn’t have something else to think about. Except this time, he’s got some experience to back those fantasies up. He knows more. The fantasies aren’t all vague flashes of skin and heat, fractured moments of a process he isn’t entirely certain of. They’re intricate, elaborate things that he puts  _ entirely _ too much thought and detail into. 

He has a lot of fantasies. But recently, one of them has become  _ the _ fantasy. The new favorite, the one he keeps coming back to over and over again. The finer details vary sometimes, but the broad strokes remain the same. It’s like this: 

“Martin,” Jon says shortly one day, opening the door to his office to glare out at the little Archival Assistants bullpen. 

Martin startles and accidentally knocks over a cup of pens on his desk. Jon, as a rule, does not talk to Martin unless Martin comes to him, either with a cup of tea, an overdue report, or by literally stumbling into him, which has happened so many times at this point that Martin’s a little bit concerned that he may or may not be cursed, where Jonathan Sims is concerned. It would explain a lot. 

He cringes a little, expecting a withering look for the clumsiness. He swears he isn’t like this normally, but Jon just-- brings it out in him, somehow. Makes his palms clammy with nervous sweat, hyper aware of himself and yet somehow knocking things over with his elbows anyways. 

Jon does not give him a withering look. His expression is locked in a stern, intent glare, and Martin’s stomach drops a little. Oh god, he must’ve really messed up this time. He doesn’t know how, he has no idea what he did, but he must have, somehow. And god, Jon’s probably going to ask him if he knows what he did, and all he’ll have is stammering nothings, and then Jon’s going to have to explain to  _ him _ what  _ he _ did wrong, and it’s going to be awful. 

(Tim and Sasha will be conveniently missing during this. Off getting lunch, out doing field work. The details don’t matter, so long as they’re gone. The focus is on him and Jon.) 

_ “Martin,” _ Jon snaps again, impatiently. “Stop daydreaming.” And he steps aside, and Martin realizes that Jon’s waiting for him to get up and enter Jon’s office, a place that Jon is usually so prickly and transparently eager to get Martin out of. 

“R-- right! Sorry, sorry,” Martin says, and gets up and hurriedly walks into Jon’s office. Jon turns his back on him and walks back inside. 

“Close the door after yourself,” he says curtly. 

“Okay,” he says, voice jumping an octave with sheer nerves at that order. Why does the door need to be closed? Jon doesn’t even tell him to close the door when he’s dressing him down, apparently completely unashamed over Tim and Sasha overhearing absolutely every harsh word he has to shout. Martin doesn’t know if it’s because it’s a humiliation tactic to try and get the scolding to sink in more, or if he just gets so furious with him that he forgets not to raise his voice. If it simply just doesn’t occur to him that the rest of the office can obviously hear everything, and that it makes Martin sort of want to curl up into a ball of hot mortification and die. 

Martin closes the door. Jon sits down in his high backed leather office chair. A leftover from Gertrude Robinson. It’s a nice chair. It looks sturdy, high quality. Imposing. 

Martin stands there, tense and biting his tongue, waiting for Jon to lay into him. Unbearably, Jon doesn’t say a word to him, and instead turns his focus onto his desk, moving files here and there, flipping through them. Is he doing  _ paperwork? _ Is he just going to… let Martin stand here in silence and stew for a while, while he works? 

Jon usually doesn’t go in for those sort of mindgame power plays. He’s… prickly, sure, but he’s always been a very straightforward sort of person. It may be impossible to please him-- at least for Martin-- but it’s not like he’s laying traps or tricking Martin into saying or doing the wrong thing. He doesn’t need to. Martin messes up often enough all on his own. Jon’s given him the impression that he doesn’t relish the opportunity to shout at Martin as much as he dearly wishes that he didn’t dare to exist in his vicinity, where he keeps being such a  _ nuisance.  _

He really should keep his mouth shut until he’s spoken to, that’s  _ obviously  _ what he’s supposed to do, but the only sounds in the office are the tick of the clock and the soft noise of Jon moving papers and each silent moment feels like a mounting pressure that keeps getting heavier and heavier and he can’t  _ bear _ it. 

“Um, so, what’s wro-- I mean, is there something, something the matter, Jon? Is everything okay? Did I--” he nervously rambles, so eager to break the silence that he didn’t even take the time to properly line his words up in his head before he opened his mouth to spew noise into the office, Martin you absolute _ idiot. _ This is why Jon doesn’t like you! This exact thing! Also how he keeps bumping into him, or interrupting him while he’s doing a recording, or consistently putting his foot in his mouth in every single conversation they have because Jon has a pretty, disdainful glare that makes Martin’s stomach tie itself up into knots in multiple, devastating ways and--

_ “Martin,” _ he says sharply enough to cut through Martin’s rambling, which is still going on, terribly enough. He shuts up so fast that he bites his tongue a bit. “Stop babbling.”

“Sorry--” he says automatically, and winces and stops talking again as Jon  _ glares _ at him. Which just makes him want to say sorry again, like that’s going to fix anything. He bites his bottom lip, just to make sure that nothing slips out. 

He’s usually  _ better _ at this. Not saying things that he shouldn’t. Not around Jon, though. Jon’s… special. 

Jon turns his attention away from Martin and back to his desk, although his ‘dealing with Martin’ frown, as Tim christened it, still lingers on his face. He makes a small triumphant as he opens a file that was apparently the one he was looking for. He places it down on his desk, angled towards Martin, the invitation clear. Hesitantly, unable to stop himself from peeking at Jon as he reaches for it, searching for signs that this isn’t the move he’s supposed to make, he picks it up. Jon just looks impatient, like Martin’s intentionally drawing things out. 

“Did you want for me to look into something?” he asks. Normally, Jon doesn’t really make so much-- well, fanfare?-- out of giving out a new assignment. He normally just walks out into the Assistants bullpen, and if both Tim and Sasha are already occupied with something, he’ll sigh and hand Martin a file and tell him to follow up on it, with a faint regretful grimace like he’s tossing it into the trash. Quick and relatively painless. 

“Open it,” Jon says. 

“Oh, alright, sorry! Thought you’d want for me to get cracking at it at my desk-- right, right, getting to it.” He opens the file. 

It’s his CV. 

His heart skips a beat. When it starts back up again, it’s going double time. 

“I don’t understand?” he says, a confused innocence instantly slamming down on the panic that wants to rise up to the surface in his voice and expression. He looks at Jon, the picture of incomprehension. “Jon, this is my CV.” 

Jon frowns at him. “Don’t play dumb, Martin. You’re insufferable enough as it is without exaggerating anything. You obviously know why I’ve called you into my office.” 

He does. There’s only one reason to call attention to his CV after he’s worked here for over almost a decade without any particular fuss, and continuing to act like he doesn’t know is pointless. He’d always known that the whole facade would crumble in on itself like wet cardboard the second someone paid a bit too much attention, and now someone _ has. _ Jon has always noticed every single mistake Martin makes and hasn’t made any secret of it. 

He  _ wants _ to keep acting like he doesn’t know, like that’ll somehow make it not real, like it’s not happening. Like he can maybe still convince Jon that he’s wrong. 

He makes himself drop the confused look, and clutches the file to his chest tightly, like it’s the only copy in existence, and if he just keeps it then no one else can see what Jon’s seen. 

“Please don’t fire me,” he says, voice small. “I-- I really need this job, Jon.” 

“I should,” Jon says, as merciless as ever.  _ I should. _ A small, stupid hope sparks inside of Martin’s chest at that. “I always knew you were incompetent, but completely unqualified? It’s hard to believe that it’s taken until now for anyone at all to notice. Perhaps it’s the sheer audacity of the lie that does it. A major in parapsychology, from a man who didn’t even graduate  _ highschool.” _

“Have you told Elias?” 

“Not yet.” 

Not yet. If he hasn’t told Elias, he probably hasn’t told anyone. Elias is Jon’s only official superior, and he doesn’t seem to really have any  _ friends _ at work, beyond the bantering he sometimes tolerates and maybe even enjoys with Tim and Sasha. 

Which means that Martin still has a hope of convincing him to not tell anyone at all. He doesn’t know how, but there's still a chance that he can’t stop himself from clutching at. The situation is terrible, but not completely unsalvageable. Right? Nothing’s lost until he’s actually fired. He has to believe that. 

“Please don’t. I-- I’m sorry. I  _ really _ needed the money, and all of the jobs that would have me paid minimum wage and-- please, Jon, isn’t there  _ anything  _ I can do to make you not tell anyone?” 

(And here is where things get unrealistic, because instead of ignoring his begging and firing him like Jon  _ would _ if he ever found out about Martin’s CV fraud, he--) 

Jon’s glare fades away as a considering look overtakes his expression. Hope beats stronger in Martin’s chest, almost painful even as it’s the only thing standing between himself and devastation. Jon’s gaze slowly goes up and down Martin, as if inspecting him. 

“Well,” he says slowly, clearly thinking, and Martin can’t  _ breathe _ from the sheer dread and anticipation. “There is perhaps one job that even  _ you _ can’t mess up.” 

“Yes,” he instantly, recklessly agrees. “I’ll do anything.” 

“Then get on your knees,” says Jon, and the order is so incongruous compared to his posh accent and professional attire and his  _ office, _ that for a moment it doesn’t register. 

“What?” he asks dumbly. 

Jon rolls his eyes. “Really, Martin, I wouldn’t think so simple an order would be beyond you. Get on your knees, and crawl over to me. It’s not  _ far.”  _

He opens his mouth to say something-- another stunned question perhaps-- but nothing but a silent exhalation of breath escapes him. He’s literally lost for words. 

Jon frowns sternly, straightens in his imposing office chair. “Do you want to keep your position, or don’t you?” 

“N-- no, I, of course--” 

“Then. Get. On. Your. Knees.” Jon snaps his fingers and points to the floor, like Martin’s a misbehaving dog that’s due for a scolding. He flushes, hot and dizzy with how suddenly it comes over him. 

He goes to his knees. With Jon sitting in his chair, he has to look up at him now, for once. Jon looks very natural, looking down on Martin. He’s always had a talent for making Martin feel small. 

Martin crawls over to him on the hardwood floor, on his hands and knees. It really isn’t far to go. The office isn’t particularly large. As he approaches, Jon spreads his legs, obviously making a space meant for Martin. Where this is going becomes as clear and obvious as-- as-- fuck, he can’t think of anything apt and fitting, his mouth is  _ watering. _ He swallows. 

He reaches the space between Jon’s legs and sits back on his heels. Jon casually threads a hand though Martin’s hair, and it’s the most intimate touch they’ve ever shared. Until now it’s just been the two of them crashing into each other at the corner of a hallway, or fingers briefly brushing against each other at the handing over of a file or a cup of tea, which Jon wouldn’t seem to even register and that would linger in Martin’s mind for hours afterwards. 

Jon’s hand in his hair tightens, keeps moving, drawing his head back, stretching his neck. Martin whimpers involuntarily, a small pathetic bitten off noise, and tries to pliantly move with him, letting himself be moved and arranged according to Jon’s liking. To be easy and obedient. 

“So at least you can  _ crawl,” _ Jon notes dryly. “Good to know. This might be the most promptly you’ve ever followed one of my orders, actually. But then, that never was laziness, was it? You really didn’t know how to do what I asked of you, and had to fumble your way through it on your own. That’s why any marginally complicated task always takes you double the time it would take one of the other assistants to do it instead. That explains a painful amount, really. I’ve often wondered how someone as incompetent as you could even exist, much less own a bachelors degree.” 

“Jon,” escapes his lips, thin and reedy, almost whining. He has no idea what he’s trying to say, what he’s pleading for. He just knows that the way Jon is looking down at him, the way his hand in his hair is drawing his head back, tugging at the roots-- it’s all making him  _ burn. _ Both in that he’s probably painfully obviously flushed all over with hot humiliation and desire, and that there’s a heated urgency tingling at the edges of his fingers, his lips-- and his crotch, of course. 

“I’ve got a job for you, one so simple that even  _ you  _ couldn’t screw it up and make a mess of things. Nothing you’re underqualified for.” Not taking his left hand out of Martin’s hair, he uses his right to undo the subtle button and zip of his trousers. As he fishes his cock out of his pants, Martin’s mouth falls open without his say so, his eyes going wide. 

Jon’s cock is already hard (like insulting and threatening Martin had turned him on, his cock swelling even as he was glaring with disdain at him), and it looks the perfect size for Martin’s mouth. 

“I-- it’s been a while,” he says inanely, as if he’s preemptively apologizing for the mess in his flat. He should be saying no. He should be saying yes. 

“I can’t imagine why, with your charm,” Jon says scathingly. “Are you just going to stare at it? Have you forgotten what the next step is? It’s not that complicated, Martin, good lord. Just put your mouth on it and suck. Losing your ability to spout whichever inane thought falls into your head out into the world can only possibly improve things.” 

And with that, he pulls Martin towards his crotch with his grip on his hair, and Martin follows, lets himself be pulled into Jon’s lap, lets Jon’s cock be pushed against his mouth, his cheek. Jon sighs, aggravated and exasperated. 

_ “Open your mouth,” _ he says. “I never thought I’d have to tell you  _ that. _ Do I have to spell out to you how to do everything?” 

Martin shudders, and wildly hopes that Jon doesn’t stop spelling things out to him like he’s a damned idiot. He knows he’s supposed to be able to guess these things, to not have to be told explicitly, and he  _ is, _ but-- clarity is nice. Being told exactly what someone wants from him instead of being given a sparse, nerve wracking, vague instruction with the expectation that he’ll figure it out, so he can’t possibly misunderstand and mess it up and be  _ shouted at _ and called  _ names--  _

Well, that would-- that’d be lovely. Martin really, really wants it. He doesn’t mind if it makes Jon think he’s stupid. Jon’s  _ always _ thought that Martin’s stupid, and he’s not exactly wrong, is he? What kind of idiot would get himself into this sort of mess in the first place? 

He opens his mouth and swallows down Jon’s cock. Jon pulls him down on it by his grip on his hair, fast and hard. Martin chokes a bit at the suddenness of it, tears of strain beading at the corners of his eyes. 

Jon lets out a small sigh, the furthest Martin has ever heard his voice come to satisfaction in his presence. It makes him hurry to get all of Jon’s cock into his mouth, the very tip of it just barely grazing his gag reflex. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on just breathing through his nose, on relaxing the muscles in the back of his throat as he adjusts to the weight and warmth and taste of Jon on his tongue, on keeping his jaw in this position, his lips stretching taut around the girth of him. 

Jon’s grip in his hair gentles, and he strokes his hand through his curls once. Martin can’t help but shiver at that. The silent approval feels almost more novel than Jon’s cock in his mouth. 

“Even you can be a warm, tight, wet hole for me to stick my cock into,” he says, and the word cock in his posh accent sounds _ filthy _ and immediately burns itself into his mind. “There’s no way you can turn this into a disaster, is there? All you have to do is sit on your knees and not move. You’re not even getting in the way now. This is all you’re good for in the end. Being my cockwarmer.” 

Martin  _ moan _ s around the cock in his mouth, plaintive and muffled and _ loud,  _ his face burning. He squirms where he’s kneeling, and grasps at the hem of his jumper and twists at it to stop himself from pressing a palm against his crotch. Doing that right in front of Jon, even if he’s currently serving as his  _ cockwarmer  _ (oh god), sounds horrifically embarrassing. 

“Even with your mouth full, you won’t be quiet,” Jon says, annoyed. His grip tightens in Martin’s hair again, and he thrusts up into his mouth once, hard and fast. Martin chokes and gags on it, but Jon keeps him trapped right where he is, forcing him to slowly recover from it with his mouth full. And then he presses his leather clad shoe into Martin’s crotch, and he loses his breath and composure  _ again.  _

“You’re hard,” he says disdainfully, finally taking the firm, testing pressure of his shoe away from Martin’s crotch, as if he hadn’t been as well before Martin had done anything more than get on his knees and let Jon pull at his hair. Well. Not that there’s much  _ letting _ going on around here. Martin’s job hangs in the balance, and losing it really isn’t an option. He  _ has _ to let Jon do this. It makes heat boil underneath his skin, trapped and restless and needy. “Really, Martin, I haven’t even touched you. Are you that easy to rile up? A few harsh words and orders, and you’re straining at the seam of your trousers?” 

Martin’s mouth is full, and he really doesn’t think he’s supposed to take his mouth off Jon’s cock. (He doesn’t  _ want _ to take his mouth off Jon's cock.) He can’t say anything in reply, can’t stammer out any apologies or defenses. 

“I wonder,” he says, “if this happens to you often. Is that why you scurry out of here with your tail between your legs so quickly after I’ve dressed you down? Don’t want to give me a chance to notice the bulge in your trousers? Have you been sitting at your desk hiding a stiffie because I was too mean to you and that got you all excited? What’s wrong with you?” 

Another terrible, wanting, whining, full mouthed noise escapes him, as if in affirmation. That’s not  _ true. _ Or-- not most of the time. It was only sometimes, it was only a little bit, not a full flagged, desperate erection like right now. Most of the time, anyways. 

Martin gives up and presses a palm up against his own crotch, desperately grinding down pressure into the throbbing, needy heat of it. He moans again around Jon’s cock, louder and filthier this time. 

Jon scoffs. “It  _ figures _ that you’d get all riled up by me using your mouth. Is that why you’re always prattling on? You’re just desperately hoping that I’ll stuff something into your mouth to shut you up?” 

He imagines it. Accidentally ending up in the cramped little Archival kitchenette as Jon at the same time and fumbling over his apologies every time they so much as brush up against each other and Jon shoots him an annoyed look, until finally he just casually puts two of his fingers into Martin’s mouth mid sentence and tells him to  _ be quiet, Martin.  _ Martin going shocked and still as Jon holds Martin’s tongue down. Sealing his lips around his fingers and curling his tongue and tasting them and  _ sucking.  _

His hands hurry to get his own cock out of his trousers with haste, urgency flaring inside of his gut like someone tried to put out a grease fire with a pitcher of water. 

Jon’s grip in his hair twists, harsh and brutal. 

_ “No,” _ he says. “You will  _ not  _ spill your mess onto my carpet like an animal. Hands at your back, Martin.” 

Martin whimpers helplessly around Jon’s cock, and then forces himself to put his hands behind his back, grasping at his own wrists. Leaving his own straining cock trapped within the confines of his pants,  _ fuck. _ He shouldn’t have tried to get it out, at least then he could still touch it through the fabric of his trousers, blunt pressure and friction to clumsily grind against. Now, he’s lost the privilege, and he wants to beg to get it back, except his mouth is  _ full.  _

Jon gives a mercifully shallow thrust into Martin’s mouth, his cock edging into Martin’s throat again. 

“Better,” Jon says, the harsh, stern tone leaving him a little as he’s apparently mollified by Martin’s immediate obedience. “You’re much more tolerable like this, actually. Can’t make a mess of things with your hands behind your back, can’t ramble on about useless things if your mouth is full. You should just be gagged and bound up and kneeling in place all day, when you aren’t in use.” 

Martin tries to bob his head along with Jon’s slow, shallow thrusts, burning up with arousal and feeling like he has to do  _ something _ if he’s not allowed to speak or touch himself. Jon makes a forbidding noise and keeps Martin’s head in place with his grip on his hair. Martin shivers and goes still. 

“You’re a cockwarmer, Martin,” he says firmly. _“I_ decide whether I’d like to fuck your mouth, or just rest my cock inside of you for an hour or two. It’s _my_ choice. What you want doesn’t matter. Just keep your mouth open and don’t move. Can’t you at least do _that?”_

He noises around Jon’s cock, wishing he could apologize. Fuck, he thinks he can feel some spit start to slowly dribble down his chin from the corners of his mouth. He squirms uncomfortably, wishing he could just reach up and wipe it away, but-- Jon would probably get mad. Jon would shout. He wants to do what Jon tells him to, he  _ does.  _

Unexpectedly, Jon reaches down and wipes it away for him with the edge of his thumb. 

“What a mess you are,” he says, almost softly. Like he’d noticed Martin not removing his hands from behind his back, and he liked that. 

Martin’s heart does something  _ painful _ at that. He closes his eyes so that he won’t try and look up at Jon’s face, and instead just focuses on the feeling of him in his mouth, the neglected need pulsing at his own crotch. 

Jon’s leg moves back between his own again, except this time he doesn’t press the arch of his shoe against his crotch. He instead shoves the length of his shin against it, solid pressure. Martin can’t stop one aborted thrust up against his leg, before he freezes up, like he does when he knocks something over in front of Jon, when he _ knows _ he’s made a mistake, and he’s been caught at it. He almost wants to keep his eyes closed, hiding, but he opens them instead and looks up at Jon’s face from behind the cover of his eyelashes. 

“Go ahead,” he says, like he doesn’t care what Martin decides to do. “Hump away at it, if that’s what it’s going to take to make you behave.” 

Martin can’t help but suck at Jon’s cock for that, hard and grateful. It only makes Jon hiss and pull sharply at his hair, reproving. Apologetically, he stops, and then starts rocking up against Jon’s leg before he changes his mind. 

Oh,  _ god _ that’s good. Finally, finally some pressure and friction where it’s needed, after what feels like a small eternity of Jon winding him up further and further with his words and insults and disdain and orders and his  _ pretty face _ and his  _ pretty voice _ and the certain, solidity of simple clear cut commands and he wants to put his cock in  _ Martin’s _ mouth and Martin can  _ do _ that, that’s something he can do without fucking it up, he swears, he wants to be useful, he wants to be helpful, he  _ wants.  _

(He also wants to be fucked by his mean, hot boss. Convenient, that.)

He tries to keep his mouth slack around Jon, not instinctively sucking at it or running his tongue over it or bobbing his head, because that’s not what Jon wants, Jon doesn’t want him making  _ decisions,  _ and that’s fair. Martin doesn’t have the best track record of making good ones. He’s  _ very _ fine with not having to make any decisions for a while, for as long as Jon wants to keep him on his knees inside of his office. He’ll be good. He’ll just be an obedient mouth for Jon to fuck into like he wants, and it’s very kind of Jon to let Martin rub up against his generously offered leg, because otherwise he’d be  _ dying _ right now. 

“Look at you,” Jon says, almost marveling, almost morbidly fascinated. “You’re so  _ desperate. _ I know you can feel embarrassment from the way you go red at the drop of a hat, but what about shame? What  _ wouldn’t  _ you let me do to you?” 

Nothing, he wants so desperately to say. There’s not a single thing he wouldn’t let Jon do to him, if that’s what Jon wants. Fuck, he likes Jon too much when he’s  _ yelling _ at him, of  _ course _ he’s fine with being used by him. This is  _ wonderful.  _

Unaware of this, Jon continues. “Would you let me bend you over my desk and fuck you? No condom at all, just coming inside of you. Would you let me use you as a cockwarmer that way, just sit you in my lap and stay inside of you for hours? Would you let me stash you away underneath my desk, to focus on my work while you keep your mouth on me for hours and hours, occasionally thrusting into you whenever I feel like it? Would you let me fuck you outside of the office, where there’s no locked door protecting what little dignity you have left? Would you--” 

Martin comes inside of his pants like a messy, desperate teenager. 

_ “Really,”  _ Jon says, and Martin squeezes his eyes shut and  _ whines _ as Jon mercilessly presses his leg up against Martin’s crotch, the fabric of his pants already growing damp. “That didn’t take much at all, did it? What, did those little scenarios actually  _ excite _ you? Is that what you want, to be fucked and used? Treated the way you should be, like the only thing you’re good for is some release? Perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised that you’re apparently  _ depraved.” _

It had been Jon listing all of those filthy, vulgar, tantalizing ideas in his  _ voice _ that had done it, actually. That deep, sternly professional voice that sounds like it shouldn’t be anywhere near the vicinity of the word ‘fuck’. The things Jon’s voice  _ does  _ to that word,  _ hell.  _

Keeping Martin’s head steady and in place with his firm grip nestled deep in his hair, Jon idly sets a pace of thrusting into Martin’s mouth, the tip edging into his throat with each pass. Continuing to fuck his mouth, like him coming isn’t anything worth pausing his own pleasure for. 

“You’ve made a mess in your pants,” he says disdainfully, “like a juvenile. I suppose I’d better send you home to change, instead of letting you squirm at your desk all day, not getting anything done. Although maybe I  _ should. _ Perhaps it would teach you a lesson in self control. But then again, it’s not as if you’re going to contribute anything else to the workday, are you? I could share you with the others, possibly, but that would just interrupt _ their _ work. Best to let you shamefacedly retreat to your flat, trying to hide the setting stain in your trousers while on the tube.” 

Jon still won’t take his leg away from Martin’s crotch. His prick is _ sensitive _ at this point, spent and wanting to shy away from the firm, unyielding pressure that he’d been so grateful for only moments ago. He can’t bring himself to try and move his hips away from it. He’s very snugly positioned, after all, and moving would surely make his mouth move on Jon’s cock, and that’s not what he’s supposed to do. He remains right where he is, his pants a sticky mess, his cock oversensitive, his knees and jaw aching as some drool goes down his chin and Jon casually fucks his mouth. 

His mind feels peaceful, quiet. Drifting. Being useful to Jon for once is  _ nice.  _ So nice. He’s tried, of course, but now it’s  _ simple, _ now Jon is showing him how and he knows how to do this, finally. Anyone can take a cock in their mouth, including Martin. 

Jon’s breathing is growing ragged, uneven. “Better,” he pants. “You’re so much better like this.” 

That’s almost praise, as close as he can ever imagine Jon getting to it, and he moans softly, rocking his hips gently against Jon’s leg. It’s still too much after coming, but-- it’s  _ Jon. _ Jon’s leg pressed up against his cock. He really can’t resist. 

“Fuck,” Jon says, that crass word that sounds so breathtaking in Jon’s beautiful voice, and then, _ “swallow.”  _

Swallowing is easy too. He does it, and it feels good to be allowed to move his mouth, his tongue, for just a moment. To taste the evidence that he’s made Jon feel good, salty and bitter. Jon keeps him there for a long moment after he’s orgasmed, catching his breath, slowly and painstakingly shoring up his composure again as his dick grows limp in Martin’s mouth. Then he pulls Martin off of him, not carefully but not cruelly either. Martin closes his mouth for the first time in what feels like a long while, and swallows down the built up spit and lingering taste of come. Licks his lips. They’re a little bit numb after being stretched open for so long. A little bit tingly. 

He watches glaze eyed and openly admiring as Jon tucks his spent cock away back into his pants, his trousers. His hands look so lovely, touching his own cock. Long fingers. Those had been nestled into his hair earlier, tugging and pulling at his locks, using them to position Martin’s head just as he liked it. 

Martin  _ likes _ being touched by Jon. Not gently, but like he’s something that he’s entitled to. That’s… that’s very nice. Martin would very much like to be someones. 

Jon looks down at him, like he’s only just now caught his attention. He frowns down at him in that familiar way, except it’s softened a little bit at the edges now, presumably because even Jonathan Sims can’t be in too terrible a mood after having just orgasmed. Or maybe even because Martin did a good job. Maybe. 

“What are you staring at?” he says. “Are you expecting another round already? Good lord. Wipe your chin off and get out of here, I  _ do _ have some actual work to do, Martin.” 

Martin wipes roughly at his chin with his sleeve, wiping away his spit. He stands up, and it’s a slow and clumsy affair after having just spent so long on his knees. 

_ Did I do a good job? Did you like it?  _

Martin doesn’t ask that. That’s just-- that’s just  _ unrealistic. _ Jon would never answer a question like that with a simple and honest  _ yes. _ At best, he’d sigh and agree in a long suffering sort of way, like he was just saying whatever he thought would get Martin away the fastest. So he swallows those questions down. Instead, he says, “So’re you not going to tell anyone, then?” 

His voice slurs a bit, his jaw sore and his tongue needing a moment to remember the trick of moving properly to shape syllables. 

“No, of course not. Was I not clear enough? You did as I asked, so this stays between you and me. So long as you  _ keep _ doing as I ask.” 

And that-- that’s as good as him saying that Martin  _ successfully _ did what Jon asked him to do. He was good. He did good. 

He smiles, and he feels it keenly as it pulls at his lips, like moving an arm that you’ve slept on funny at the tube. 

“Okay,” he says. “Bye, Jon. Thanks. Don’t-- don’t stay in the office too late.” 

You’re not supposed to thank the person that gave you the ultimatum of ‘suck my dick or lose your job’ he knows, but. But. 

Jon gives him a deeply familiar look. A look that says that Martin is utterly baffling to him, and that very much annoys him, his confusing behavior. He scowls and turns towards his desk, very much signaling to Martin that this interaction is over. 

“Go home before anyone else sees the stain setting into your trousers,” he says bitingly, and Martin makes a squeaking sort of noise as he remembers it, and turns around and quickly leaves. He closes the door behind him. 

And that’s Martin’s current favorite fantasy. Doesn’t it sound nice? To get to keep his job, but he wouldn’t have that pesky imposter syndrome (except it’s not actually that because he’s  _ really _ an imposter) hanging over him like a dark cloud all of the time. He could just… make Jon feel good, all day long, and he wouldn’t be a bother or a distraction or smothering him. Martin wouldn’t be forcing his presence on him. Jon would be the one making him take care of him, showing by action if not word, by ordering and blackmailing him to do it again and again, that he  _ did _ want Martin there. On his knees. 

Yeah. It’s really trashy, and silly and unrealistic, in the way that a lot of fantasies are. Any fantasy in which Jon wants Martin at all is inherently unrealistic, really. It’s all pretty embarrassingly hopeless. But it’s okay, because Martin knows that nothing like it is ever going to happen. He’s not stupid, alright? He’s just… daydreaming. Having fun. He knows Jon would never do something that extreme. 

He knows Jon would never do something like that to  _ Martin.  _ He wouldn’t want to. Martin knows that, so it’s okay. It’s not pining if you’re not holding your breath and hoping and hoping that it might happen anyways, against all odds and logic. 

He rubs at his chest. It hurts. 

“Damn it,” Jon says quietly. He takes his glasses that he doesn’t really need any longer off so he can more properly press the heels of his hands against his closed eyes, and takes a long moment to just be weak and wanting. 

All of the kinks and fetishes and sexual things… they’re big and flashy, pulling at his attention, distracting him. But coursing underneath all of it is Martin, and the way he feels about him. The way he had been so fond of Jon, had wanted him so keenly, and Jon just… hadn’t noticed it. Where had his Knowing been then, when he’d needed it? 

How? How could Martin possibly feel like that, for him? All the way back then? He hadn’t even reached out to him with a decent word or offer yet, the way he had after Prentiss first attacked Martin. The vision he’d gotten of Martin touching himself while sitting in his chair had happened after that, but the rope, the fantasy? That had all happened before. Before Jon had done or said a single vaguely kind thing to or for him. 

How could Martin want him, even back then? 

He Knows

Tim introduces them, taking the new researcher on a tour around the building, showing him off a bit like a circus animal, playing it up for laughs. He’s taking him on the rounds around the bullpen now, introducing him one by one to his new coworkers. Martin tries to have his current paragraph wrapped up before they reach him, meaning that he gets his first good look at the new guy only when he’s close enough that he can see just exactly how sharp his cheekbones really are. 

_ Wow, _ is his first thought. He clears his throat and swallows that down, because he  _ does  _ work in the same office as Tim, he knows how to function around pretty men, thank you very much. 

“Hey,” he says with a mild, friendly smile, “I’m Martin, nice to meet you.” 

“Jon,” the new guy replies. He leans in a little, standing over Martin where he’s sitting at his desk, and Martin freezes up for a moment, confused, and then he realizes that Jon is peering at his computer screen, his eyes moving from side to side. He reaches his hand out and points at the screen, his finger very carefully not touching the screen. “You’ve misspelled phantasmagorical,” he says, a little bit disapproving. 

“Oh,” he says dumbly, not knowing what else to say. 

Tim breaks out into belated, shocked laughter. “What are you, his editor? Oh my god, Jon, you’re a hoot, huh? You must be the life of every party.” 

“Well, he _ has,” _ he says defensively, his shoulders hunching. He shoots a glare at Martin, like this teasing is his fault for being such a poor speller. 

“Sorry,” he says, not knowing how else to respond. He can’t remember the last time he’s been this bluntly called out on for a mistake. Everyone in the office is more or less used to his ‘blundering.’ They just roll their eyes a bit, not in a cruel sort of way, and quickly fix it up or smooth over it for him, or leave him to take care of it. “I, I’ll fix it?” 

“See that you do,” he says, like he’s Martin’s English teacher or something. 

Tim barks another laugh and slaps Jon on his back, and hauls him away to continue the introductions. 

After that, things settle into a bit of a… pattern, with Jon. Martin makes some mistake that everyone would usually ignore or work around, that all of them know how to avoid making themselves. Jon notices it. Jon snaps at Martin about making yet another mistake, pointing out all of the ways that he should’ve known better, and that he must have his head in the clouds to have made it anyways. Martin apologizes, flustered and mortified, and Jon huffs and rolls his eyes, and leaves him to it. 

Everyone’s starting to look at Jon with a certain look in their eye, whenever the pattern happens again.  _ Really? You’re going on about this again? Isn’t it a bit cruel? You can’t keep expecting Martin to not be a little bit incompetent, that’s just the way he is. You shouldn’t be demanding more from him, better. He just won’t be able to measure up. You’re being mean, Jon. Why do you care so much? It’s weird.  _

Jon does not notice everyone's glances or hints. He notices every single mistake Martin makes though, no matter how small, and he _ cares, _ every single time. He makes a fuss about it, a scene. It’s upsetting and stressful, and, and-- 

And  _ no one  _ has paid this much attention to Martin in-- he can’t even remember. Has it ever happened? He’s always been so good at avoiding it. When he hit his growth spurt and kids started picking on him, he got the hang of fading into the background so quickly. He got left alone at school, for the most part. When mom was in an especially foul mood, he learned how to keep his mouth shut and his footsteps light. When he got a job that he wasn’t qualified for, he learned how to be unassuming and pleasant in a way that made people like him, and that didn’t draw attention to him as well. He’s on friendly terms with everyone, and he’s friends with none of them at the same time. He’s good at that. 

He is not on friendly terms with Jon. He doesn’t know how to  _ stop _ Jon from paying attention to him. How to become a boring part of the scenery for him, something nice and a bit useless that isn’t his problem. 

It’s absolutely nerve wracking, the way Jon looks at him. Really looks at him. It feels…  _ weird.  _ Like butterflies in his stomach. 

Not even his own mum will call him any longer. Not even to scold him. 

Jon looks at him, glares at him, and Martin can’t help but feel like he’s seeing through all of his lies and bullshit, seeing _him._ Is that why he looks so disdainful? Does he find him wanting? Isn’t there a single thing at the core of Martin that he might maybe like a little bit? 

Martin imagines himself laid bare before Jon, looking at him, never just letting his eyes skip past him, always  _ noticing,  _ always frowning and having an opinion and he’s so _ mean _ and so  _ pretty _ and he makes Martin so nervous and there’s butterflies in his stomach and what if Jon  _ touches _ him-- 

He realizes too late that he’s imagining Jon’s heavy, judging stare pinning him down to the bed as he’s stroking himself off one night, and it’s too late, too late. He comes so hard he sees white and he swears and shouts and he  _ comes.  _

His breathing is hard and fast and desperate in the aftermath, as his mind slowly sinks back from where it had been floating several feet up, back into himself. He closes his eyes as he realizes what his heart has gone and done to him while he had his back turned, a little bit anguished. 

_ “Fuck.”  _

“Fuck,” Jon says, because there’s really nothing else to say. He puts his head down on his desk, and he breathes. Focuses on trying not to Know. On keeping his thoughts on the right track. On not thinking about what he Knows now, all of the new things about Martin, all of his feelings about Jon, how much he’d wanted him, and why--

He bites his tongue until he can taste blood. Stop. He has to stop. Stop prying, stop ripping all of Martin’s secrets and inner feelings out like it’s a personal meal, like it’s something he’s entitled to. 

He wants--

No. 

He would if he could. He can’t say that he wants to stop. That’s the problem. Because this? This is the closest he’s been to Martin in months, ever since he woke up from his coma and let things go spoiled and rotten while he laid there, still and useless, the world spinning on without him. It’s… intimate, almost, in a twisted way. 

And in another way, Martin is exactly as far away from him as he’s been for over half a year now. About two floors that he could cross in five to ten minutes. A whole Grand Canyon away. 

He sits up straight, puts his glasses back on. Takes a deep breath. In, out. 

Jon breathes, and focuses on not Knowing, and he promises himself that if he ever does get Martin back, if Martin ever looks at him with eyes that aren’t distant and gives him a second chance (his hundredth second chance) he’ll show Martin that he wants him. He’ll touch him, if he’s fine with doing that with all of Jon’s seemingly arbitrary and random boundaries lying there between them. And he’ll be soft and gentle and kind, just to show how much all of those fantasies underestimated him and how much he can  _ want _ Martin Blackwood. 

… He could be mean about it too, though. If that’s what Martin wants. So long as he gets to touch him and Martin’s happy? He’ll be the luckiest, most grateful man in the world. 


End file.
